Roses
by Gummy Flobberworm
Summary: DG with slight mentions of HD. ‘He had never given her red roses before.’ Ginny dyes the white roses red.


**Title: **Roses

**Author: **Gummy Flobberworm

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings: **This story contains mentions of homosexuality, sex and suicide. 

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and events created and owned by J.K Rowling and various publishers. No infringement of copyright is intended. 

**Summary: **D/G with slight mentions of H/D. 'He had never given her red roses before.' Ginny dyes the white roses red. ****

He had never given her red roses before. There was only the occasional white rose on valentines or her birthday when he would show up with a sweet scented white rose that had had its thorns plucked off and stem polished. It was perfect, picture perfect. In fact, far too perfect to be true, devoid of feeling and passion. That was for her.

They shared a sinister sort of relationship. The kind that should have never existed. A relationship she knew all too well would kill her slowly, bit by bit. 

He was not romantically attracted to her, and most definitely did not love her. It would have been ridiculous to mention love. He would never love anyone but himself. That was a fact that used to plague her with endless sleepless nights. But it seemed that as the days gone by, she had learned to grow accustomed to it.

She remembered the day when she first really saw him. It was after the war and he was in the temporary first aid tent. His eyes were shadowed by his bangs but there was an undeniable sorrow as he stared into the unmoving body of a slender blond woman. His expression was so hollow it was almost painful to watch. She no longer remembered the reason or the motive, but she had somehow walked over to him, and put her hand on his.

She would never forget his expression when he looked up. The deep grey eyes that seemed to hold so many different emotions impossible to understand. Then, his lips curled up in a sneer. He traced her chin gently with perfectly manicured fingernails, bizarrely unscathed from the battle, and tilted her chin up with abrupt force. "You're mine"

And he was right. All the while she had been watching him in the tent, she had already belonged to him. 

Any girl with enough sense would have sprung apart and ran away at such abruptness and arrogant. But instead, she answered in a soft voice, 'of course'.

He liked green, so she charmed her closet yellow to go with him. He liked black hair, so she dyed her hair black, much to the surprise and displeasure of her family. He liked to sit by the lake during thunderstorms, watching bolts of lightning light up the sky, so she brought him umbrellas. 

She would have hoped to think that she was just a naive little girl, attracted to his mysterious and uncomfortable charms, deceived by the slight curl of his lips and deluded by the grace he eased into.

But she knew all too well why he would claim her. 

Because he didn't have to pretend around her.

Because she was the only one who knew what he wanted.

Green eyes, black hair and a bolt of lightning. She was not stupid. 

It seemed to be an unspoken compromise between the two of them, a silent promise she had given him. So she stayed with him.

They would study together in silence, him always ending up charming the pieces of parchment into shades of emerald. And when it was late, he would take her into his room, whispering honey coated words into her ears, and take her clothing off piece by piece, always folding every single piece of them and laying them by the side of the bed. 

In the morning, he would be gone.

Still he gave her only white roses. 

Soft white petals. Killing her bit by bit. Every time she would try to give a bit more, in hope of turning the white rose red. She would imagine the vibrant colour against the pinkness of her cheeks; the thorns that would prick her finger, making her bleed, giving her life. But illusions were but illusions.

She had done all that she could. She was already drained. Why had she tried so hard? She had known who the red roses were for a long long time. 

Trembling a little, she picked up a blade. With a sharp intake of breath, she plunged the cold metal into her wrist, tracing the green veins up to her elbow.

She smiled as she saw fresh red blood flow out, dripping onto the white roses lying in a bowl beneath her arm. She would use her life to give him passion. She would leave him red roses, and he would know who to give them. 

With a start, she suddenly realized that she loved him. But then again, she had known it long ago, just that she was too weak to acknowledge it.

It was getting cold; she realized there was actually quite a possibility that her life would be in waste. He would probably be more plagued with guilt than anything else, although he had never been emotionally involved with her. 

But she was aware that, at a small corner of her heart, she was still secretly yearning for him to mourn for her. For him to be present at her funeral with her red roses.

The white roses were soaked red by then, and she slipped away into the icy and somewhat smoothing darkness. 

Who could blame a girl for wishing?

_Fin_


End file.
